


a kind of magic

by kalypsobean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2612300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something about Aragorn that draws Éomer's loyalty, if not his love, but there's kind of a war on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a kind of magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monkiainen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkiainen/gifts).



I.

Brego returned riderless, uncontrollable; he shied when anyone came close and it was all the stablehands could do to fill his trough and hope he ate. Éomer set out with fifty men as the sun set, his mission unsanctioned. If the King was himself, Éomer thought, he would have given the order. As it was, he governed by stealth in Théoden's stead, and left behind Gamling and Hama to struggle with the politics of silent manipulation as he rode to find his cousin. They cantered in silence but for the sounds of hooves on loosely packed dirt, as if the ghosts of the very company they sought guided them through the wind.

 

The stench of death wafted from Théodred's armour and followed Éomer from the prince's rooms.

 

II.

Éomer has never been one to put stock in magic. He respects those who wield it, not so far from his childhood that he doesn't remember Gandalf Greyhame's fireworks and mysterious foreknowledge, or the stories of the Dúnedain that followed the Rangers as they passed through the Westfold and rode as they would. But for himself, he trusts only what he can touch and kill; it is, after all, not for Men to wield the power of the Elves or the sight of the Wizards. It is what he can fashion with his hands that he puts his hope in, small things, like the strength of a knot in a makeshift rein and the orders he can guide his uncle's hand across when Gríma does not look. He holds sway over life and death enough with his spear, he can read the ground enough to track an Orc from two day's hence, he has the loyalty of his company and his honour has not been sullied through the stirrings of this war.

His mouth turns dry and the air to dust when the Man stands up before him, calls to him, and holds magic around him so thickly it is almost visible. The horses hearken to him, Aragorn son of Arathorn, and that is enough for Éomer to give his trust to something he is not sure he fully understands, not yet.

 

III.

The sun is warm on the back of his neck and if it were not for the light from Gandalf's staff, he would have thought his company had blocked the sun for the darkness below him. The Orcs, the powerful grotesque Uruk-hai, flee from his spear into the trees. Their flight reveals devastation unlike anything he has seen, even when he rode through the pillaged settlements with the fires burning low in the foundations. The Deep could not have survived such an attack; this he knows from the nausea that coils in his belly, and the retches from the younger of his men. But Aragorn welcomes him at the causeway, astride Brego, and Éomer knows this is how Rohan was saved. 

Aragorn says he did nothing that another man would not do, but the stories belie his humility. 

 

Éomer refuses drink in the halls, save for that offered in ceremony. He is happy to watch, following the silence in Aragorn's wake as the revelry orients itself around him. For once, Éomer is envious of his sister, for she can wear her affection openly; Éomer cannot, will not. He stumbles over his gratitude in private, a moment snatched in shadow when Edoras is preparing for sleep, and Aragorn clasps his shoulder; his words are sure and quiet, they do not carry, and for that instant, the war is not yet come.

 

IV.

Aragorn is remote, distant, almost cold. Éomer sees him from across the encampment; there's no chance for them to speak before the men start whispering of visitors who move soundlessly and speaking of the mountain.

Éomer knows, then, that the time has passed for them, if it ever was; duty has a hold on them both and its grasp is sure and absolute. The air seems thin, though, once Aragorn has disappeared into the shadows, and Éomer notices things by their absence; the men do not joke or drink, not now, but the tiny hum of warmth that seemed to sit at Éomer's back is gone, like a second heartbeat gone quiet. He rides only because he must; Aragorn has taken with him what hope he had, leaving room for him to carry the dreams of his men and the darkness that is no longer held off by some spell. 

 

V.

It is almost dusk before it ends; the light has just started to dim in that moment between afternoon and twilight, and if he had not seen for himself he would not believe the victory. Their dead are piled four high on the field; there are far too many to honour with graves, and too few left to dig them even if that were not the truth. Éomer feels the air change around him - Aragorn's hand is warm on his shoulder, not sticky or cold like his own. 

"We lost too much," Éomer says.

"Rohan has always survived, and come back far stronger for it." Aragorn says. It does not help, for Éomer is fighting tears; he can't show weakness in front of the watching men, who stop bringing wood to watch them, their kings together. "I will help you bear this burden, as I aided your uncle and his father."

Éomer puts his own hand on Aragorn's, and just for a moment, he feels warm, alive, and then the sun glints off gold, near where Théoden was found.

Aragorn himself helps carry her to the tents.

 

VI.

Éomer isn't sure when it happened, but he finds himself at Aragorn's left hand. He wasn't asked, or appointed there; they don't stand on ceremony or titles. He suspects there would be fighting, if they did, and there isn't time. The nobles, what of them are left, step aside for him, and when he is not at his sister's side, he feels anxious, incomplete, when he is not with Aragorn instead.

But he can deal with that later, when Imrahil isn't eyeing him off like a prize stallion and he's sure everyone will live beyond the reach of the shadows. He isn't sure of this, either, but he suspects Aragorn takes as much comfort from his presence as he himself does when they're close; there's something in the way Aragorn almost seems to orient himself around Éomer, so there's never anyone between them. He pretends not to notice, not to understand; he just moves so that Aragorn doesn't have to, until it's time to ride out once more and duty takes them back to the men who need them.

This time, though, Éomer feels a difference in the men, in the air, even in himself; it's the King who leads them, who gives the men faith and Éomer his hope. 

If there was more time, Éomer would find the words and the strength to act on it beyond following the banners into yet another lopsided, death-filled battle.

**Author's Note:**

> I was working on this for your gift fic, monkiainen, but it didn't seem to work if I put Aragorn and Éomer together! The mods have graciously allowed me to finish it off and add it to the collection as a bonus gift for you, so I hope you enjoy it a bit anyway.
> 
> Unimaginative title from the Queen song of the same name.


End file.
